


Prey

by Llama



Series: Transactions [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Dubious Consent, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 22:46:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/pseuds/Llama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles wouldn't sell his body for money, but he'll do just about anything for information.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prey

**Author's Note:**

> Still technically pre-slash, but I think the dubious consent tag is probably worth adding.
> 
> Written for [stop_drop_howl](), for the prompt “It's not much, but it's all I've got.”

When Stiles's mom was first sick, she sat down with him and explained what it meant. She had all these leaflets from the hospital, full of information, and it helped make things less scary. When things were worse, and the leaflets didn't help any more, she sat with him at the computer and found more information for him: pages and pages, an infinite store of knowledge opening up under their fingers.

By the time she died, Stiles knew everything he could understand about her illness, and could quote a great deal more that made no sense to him at all. Even now, on bad nights, he still sits in the darkness and types _cancer_ into Google, letting the stream of facts and statistics that light up the screen calm him. It works, this information overload, even if he's not sure why. 

These days, it works for other fears too. 

 

It's been two days since Stiles limped away from a fight with a feral omega, and the bruises are a patchwork of blue and yellow across his body. 

He's been expecting this visit.

Peter's eyes are greedy, already drinking in the finger-shaped marks on his neck, the shadows under his eyes, the awkward slouch of his hips where the guy caught him with a claw.

“I want a translation of the Riese file,” Stiles says flatly, his mouth a stubborn line. “And anything you have on ghouls.”

Peter's fingers are flexing already. Stiles doesn't think he's even aware of it. “You have my laptop, as we agreed,” he says, his voice deceptively mild. “You have access to all the files.”

Stiles sighs, because nothing is ever straightforward with Peter. “Fine, just make me a list.” 

“And what do I get in return?” Peter steps closer, and Stiles swallows, hard. 

He can do this. He curls his fingers in the hem of his t-shirt and lifts, pulls it over his head in what must be the least alluring partial striptease _ever_. Even though this is the third time, he's half-convinced he must be misreading Peter, must have misunderstood something, because he's just a too skinny teenage boy with a few bruises. It's not like he's much to look at.

But he's _not_ wrong, he's not misreading this, the way Peter settles his fingers on the deepest, darkest bruise, the way his pupils dilate when Stiles's breath hitches, when his heart skitters at the flash of pain.

“Eyes up,” Peter says, his voice low, and Stiles flicks his eyes to Peter's face, then up to the ceiling, his bedroom ceiling that's so familiar, yet never seen from quite this angle before. 

It's weird, not knowing where Peter is going to touch him next. It adds a frisson of not-quite fear, of pain-anticipation. He doesn't trust Peter, can't trust him. He doesn't think Peter wants him to either.

He doesn't know what Peter wants, what he's getting out of this.

“The Riese translation is going to be a lot of work, Stiles,” Peter says, his voice too close, too intimate. He folds his fingers into the bruise on Stiles's neck, and his other hand slides down Stiles's spine, searching out tender spots. “I think I may need a little more from you this time.”

When Stiles winces, Peter inhales deeply with a pleased hum. 

“More?” Stiles keeps his voice steady, but it's an effort, and he jumps when Peter's fingers tug at his jeans. When he looks, Peter is smiling. Oh, _that_ kind of more. 

“Get it to me by friday and I'll lose the shorts too,” Stiles says, because his bravado never asks permission from his brain. 

“Whatever makes you think you were keeping them?” Peter says, sly and mocking. “But since you're being so... amenable... friday it is.”

Which means Stiles has to either back out of the whole deal, or-- No, no way is he backing down, not when Peter has that smug smile on this face like he's won this round. He hasn't won, and it's no different from the locker room, right? Stiles is getting the better end of the deal here, no question. His jeans hit the floor, belt clinking, and he pushes his boxers down too before he can think better of it.

It's not really like the locker room, he finds, when Peter is close enough that his sleeve brushes against Stiles's bare hip, that his knee grazes Stiles's goosebumped leg. In the locker room nobody _looks_ , they're careful to avert their gaze, and the less someone is wearing, the larger the personal space they're given, as far as possible. 

Peter doesn't care for social niceties even when he isn't entitled to bypass them, Stiles knows that, but it's still disconcerting to have him there, fully clothed, all up in Stiles's space. Stiles's very _naked_ space. Peter lives to be disconcerting, and Stiles is sure it's all too obvious to him that nobody has ever been in Stiles's personal naked space before. 

It's disturbing enough that Peter Hale is the first person who has ever put his hands on Stiles's body in anything other than a clinical capacity, but the single claw tracing the scratch along his hip is accompanied by an eye-level examination, and there's no way Peter isn't getting an eyeful of Stiles's junk in the process. 

"Turn around," Peter says, after an excruciatingly long time. 

Stiles thinks about refusing, but if he gives Peter any reason to consider their agreement broken-- He shifts, turns, leans his arms against the wall, and tries not to think about why Peter might want to see him like this, but he can't help the way his heart rate picks up, the way his legs tremble under him. Peter's closer still now, muttering something into Stiles's neck that he can't quite make out, but he sounds pleased, almost intoxicated with whatever he's getting from Stiles's scent.

Stiles gets it then. The pain, the injuries, the menace-- 

Peter's hands stroke across Stiles's lower back, and he tenses up.

\--the unfamiliar. 

Peter is getting off on his discomfort, his distress, however slight. He's taking in the scent of it, the sound of Stiles's heart, every tremble he makes as he steels himself to just _stay still_.

Stiles is _prey_.

And from the way Peter presses himself against Stiles's ass, lets him feel the effect he's had on Peter, maybe something more.

 

Stiles may not have anything new to show for this evening until friday, but he has several more pages from his last exchange with Peter still to read, a whole old grimoire full of words both old and new that he can type into that search box, expand his results by ten, a thousand, a hundred thousand times what he gained directly from Peter, but wouldn't have known to look for without him.

It isn't what he's afraid of tonight, though. It's not ancient magic that he needs to take apart, divide by logic and reason, multiply by google. It's bigger than that, more real than that. It's intimidating and inevitable, and something he never knew he wanted, needed, until he felt Peter warm and hard behind him, pressing his fingers into his hips.

Stiles doesn't have his mom here any more, but he knows what she'd have told him to do. What she'd have helped him to do.

He reaches for his keyboard and starts to type.  



End file.
